


a heady balm

by jamnesias



Series: Untitled Holmes/Watson series [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamnesias/pseuds/jamnesias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes visits Watson in the hospital, after the explosion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a heady balm

**Author's Note:**

> Set within the timeline of the first movie.

**[a heady balm]**

  
Stopping on the way to grope through his study window for the protection of a false nose first drew his attention to the idea. Now that he stands in a riot of smells - smoke and burnt wood clogged in his nostrils, hospital chemicals and iodine and floor polish and fresh linen and, and singed flesh - here Holmes distantly realises that there was no scent after the explosion.  
  
It’s important. He requires this knowledge. Yet all of that must come later.  
  
 _Case second, propriety first, my dear Holmes._

Propriety and a sick, horrible pull in his belly to survey the scene. Thus:  
  
Bloody, long scratches up across Watson’s jaw and the delicate shell of his ear. And holes. _Holes_. Shrapnel wounds like the deep scrape of claws or fingers too close to Watson’s throat - but not on it, and there is something to be said for that.  
  
The edges are burnt, the blood has gone sticky. The smell of it this close up is heavy, queasy belladonna, the colours and creeping fingers of bruising as bright as foxgloves. He’s bare to the waist under thin sheets and his skin against the pale, against the stark look of the damage on the curve of his shoulder is making Holmes feel dizzy. His gums still throb from the blast, sensations dulled and hollow up to his eyes. The soft hair at the back of Watson’s neck is the colour of— of golden things. He's attempting not to be maudlin, but he wants to push his face into it and _inhale_ , open mouthed. Slack-kneed. Find Watson underneath the layers of smoke and injury, and that is the place to do it, surely. Clean, warm, soap and faint tobacco and the tang of perfectly steamed clothes with just a little must. He might close his eyes and just the scents and heat of Watson’s body, even like this, is akin to lighting a match in the darkness Holmes tries to shove him into. A street magician on a grey little London corner throwing coloured scarves into the air.  
  
Watson murmurs something, frowning and pulling his arm in closer against his chest, rolling his head a little to test against the wound in his semi-conscious sleep. It’s as though he might turn and smile lazily at Holmes, and for a second it is quite too much to bear. Holmes presses his lips together.  
  
But the point in hand: Watson is living, breathing, steady, and he is of course _quite_ the soldier. So he will heal.  
  
Still, Holmes’s hands are shaking. He folds them behind his back and tucks them under the white coat whilst he observes.  
  
Mary has not yet arrived. A doctor, and he uses the term loosely, has just left after cleaning up the injury. Holmes refuses to trust a man who cannot even take the time to properly starch the collar of a coat meant to indicate his professional expertise. Nor to leave a better finished spare laying about in his rooms where just any half-blown up bloke in a false nose might sweep in and help himself. A man may be as dishevelled as he dares in his own home but Holmes is well versed in the power of _public_ appearance. He has also drawn a number of conclusions on this from watching Watson; a man blessed with the rare gift of seeming at ease in any social situation. He might rival any actor on the stage. He might rival Holmes one day. Probably not.  
  
The facts of the injury are there to see, and once seen, easier to acccept. Nothing ultimately worse than to let his own imagination run wild. Think what could come next – here would be the smell of fever, of sweet infection on Watson's breath and rotting from his pores. All of this can be easily averted. Simple, precise.  
  
Holmes re-checks and then re-cleans the wound himself. Myriad little tricks learned through months of observing his fellow. There is no doubt still shrapnel inside but he can’t bring himself to go digging about. Not sure Watson would be entirely too impressed with that - instead he administers something stronger to help him sleep a little longer. The practised movements of glass and needle allow his mind to step onwards and leave the scene behind. A flourish, a gesture, doors closing.  
  
Watson breathes in, slurs something like “ _H-nm._ ” _Mmn._ Mary. Her boot-step is approaching now. A little more hesitant than normal – this a scene all too familiar to her, perhaps. Pity is not the word, exactly, but there is something. Watson would call it progress. Holmes’ll never give him the opportunity, of course.  
  
He lays a palm against the side of Watson’s throat for a second, and the pulse flutters and kicks back like something buried alive.

 


End file.
